his forehead, wincing. A regular guardsman urged him on with a poke of his sword. Seemingly without effort Blues yanked the blade from the man’s hand then clouted him on the side of his head and he fell senseless. The file of prisoners shuffled to a halt, completely uncertain what to do. Blues leaned against a wall, blinking and shaking his shaggy head.
‘You sense it?’ Shell called.
‘Sense it!’ the man groaned. ‘Gods! My head’s gonna explode. I’ve not felt this since Genabackis when we faced the Warlord… In fact, I would’ve sworn it was impossible…’
‘What?’
The man stared about, suddenly panicked. ‘Everyone, take cover! Get into doorways!
‘What is it?’
‘Quiet! Listen!’ The man backed into a cell doorway, gripped the edges.
Shell tried to still her breathing. She felt her Warren crackling with energy at her fingertips — just as during the worst magery engagements! Enormous power has been unleashed!
Then she heard it: a rumbling seeming to arise from beneath her feet. The wall struck her, slamming her across the cell into the sleeping ledge. Stone shrieked, grinding and hammering. Dust and dirt rained down, choking her breath and blinding her while the floor bashed her. She was going to die crushed like a beetle!
Eventually, though it seemed to last an eternity, the rumbling and up-and-down shaking passed away. Ominous groanings, creakings, and the cries of wounded filled the silence. The door to her cell burst into the chamber, iron bars rattling.
‘Shell!’ Hands pulled her up: it was Blues, the side of his head a dust-coated smear of blood. ‘Are you all right?’
She brushed at the pulverized rock dusting her clothes. ‘Yes… yes! I think so. Who else is here? Lazar?’
‘He’s up top last I saw. What about Bars? Corlo?’
‘They took him up the tower. Corlo… I can’t say.’
Blues helped her out. ‘Let’s see who’s here.’
Together they dug out all who could stand. They found a good many Malazan veterans, including Tollen. But no sign of Jemain or Corlo. For Bars’ sake she hoped they hadn’t been buried under tons of stone.
The Malazans formed into a party, headed by Tollen. They scavenged all the weapons they could find. ‘We’re heading up!’ Tollen called to Shell.
‘We should all go together,’ Blues said.
Tollen spat. ‘This tower won’t stand for ever. Gotta go.’
‘Good luck,’ Shell called.
Tollen raised a hand in what might be taken as an abbreviated version of the Guard salute, then nodded his party up the stairs.
‘One quick peep is all it would take to make sure no one’s left,’ she told Blues.
He frowned a negative. ‘Too early for that yet. No lower levels?’
‘Yes, but no prisoners down there.’
‘The infirmary then — where’s that?’
She nodded, suddenly certain. ‘Yes! The infirmary! Jemain is sure to be there.’
‘All right.’ Blues searched around and came up with two sticks, each about the length of his forearm. With these he headed up the stairs. Shell followed, unarmed as yet.
Fighting soon sounded from above. They passed three floors to find the way blocked by the Malazans. Tollen pushed his way down to them, spat again. ‘Blasted Stormguard’s blocking the way.’
‘Overbear them,’ Blues said. ‘What’s the matter with you marines?’
Tollen snorted, then drawled, ‘There’s just the one.’
‘One?’ Blues pushed past the bear of a fellow. ‘Let me through.’
Tollen offered Shell a wink. ‘This I gotta see. The Lady’s Grace is on this one… He won’t go down.’
‘The Lady’s Grace? What’s that?’
Tollen eyed her sidelong. ‘You’ll see.’
Shell followed. She had to walk over four dead Malazans, each bearing ferocious impalement wounds. They’d reached the main guardroom that allowed access to the surface. A lone Korelri Stormguard blocked the way amid the rubble, spear held upright at rest position, arms wrapped under his cloak. It was an older man, his short hair pepper-grey, his face savagely scarred. But what was most strange was the faint blue aura that played like a flame about the man and his spear. Energies raised over him — and so strong as to be visible even without her Warren.
‘Form up to stand the wall, prisoner,’ he told Blues.
‘Shit!’ Tollen murmured behind her. ‘Now I know him. Wall Marshal Quint. The one Chosen we didn’t want to meet.’
Blues advanced into the room. He held his two sticks straight down, angled slightly outwards from his body. ‘Let us pass and we’ll make no trouble.’
Quint’s scarred face twisted in an almost otherworldly contempt. ‘Pass? You can pass all right. You’re needed to stand the wall. The Riders are stirring. Now’s your chance to serve the Lady.’
Indeed, the waves were hammering the wall, but even Shell, new as she was to the place, could hear the difference: the arrhythmia of their pounding, and the relative weakness. It was as if they were drawing off — but it was far too early for that.
‘We decline the honour of dying for your Lady,’ Blues said.
The man levelled the spear. ‘Why? You’re going to die anyway.’ And he thrust. Blues blocked the spear with his crossed sticks and lashed out, kicking the man back. He grunted, recovering instantly, to drive Blues back with a series of short thrusts. Shell was startled: Blues was their mercenary company’s weapon-master; no one could stand before him. Certainly, there were those who could outlast him or overbear him, such as Bars or Lazar, or Skinner, for that matter, but in technique and ability with any weapon the man was peerless among them.
They duelled in this manner for a time, neither able to penetrate the other’s guard. Shell watched, her amazement growing moment by moment. Who were these Stormguard? Obviously, she saw now, their reputation was not overblown.
Snarling his disgust, the Chosen, Quint, stepped back to point his spear. ‘You’ve talent, I’ll grant you that. A shame you refuse to put it to the proper use. But now we’re done. Let’s see how you like a touch of the Lady’s Wrath.’
The aura that played about the man intensified at his hands, flaring to a brilliant glow. Shell had no time to call out a warning before it shot like a lance from the spearhead to strike Blues full in the chest. He staggered back, the aura dancing about him, sizzling. He smacked backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch that brought down another rain of dust from the roof, but he did not fall.
Quint gazed at him, utterly astonished. ‘How is this? You live?’
Blues wiped blood from his cheek and mouth and shook himself like a dog. ‘I felt something like that before, Wall Marshal. On another continent, and from another supposed god. I seem to have built up a tolerance.’
Quint struck a ready stance. ‘Then we’ll just have to settle this the old-fashioned way.’
Blues sighed, shook his head. ‘No. I don’t have time for this.’ He raised his arms and Shell saw his D’riss Warren come to him, the Warren of Earth and Stone. He thrust his arms out, sending an answering blast of power that struck the Wall Marshal and knocked him flying backwards to crash through the heavy panelled door and tumble out on to the cluttered, ice-strewn wall.
Tollen let go a low whistle that Shell seconded: yes, it’s easy to forget that the man is also one of the Guard’s strongest mages. She stepped through the wreckage to Blues’ side. ‘Decided to test the waters, did you?’
Blues gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘I guess the Lady’s too busy to care so much right now.’
The Malazans and other prisoners pressed forward. ‘Let’s go,’ Tollen called.
Outside, enormous shards of shattered ice choked the walk. Gouges had been taken out of the sides and entire buildings were gone — having slid off the rear, or collapsed. A great crack ran down the side of the tower, the dressed stone blocks shattered. A howling wind rampaged through the debris, driving pulverized ice into Shell’s face. As they stood peering for a way through the carnage, a figure straightened amid the shattered wreckage, throwing off slivers of broken ice: Wall Marshal Quint.
